


Last Rose Of Summer

by mrstater



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Children, F/M, Gen, Married Couple, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 02:26:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrstater/pseuds/mrstater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The 4th of August, 1914 marks Aurora Carlisle's first birthday, and Downton Abbey is en fête. With the onset of another First on the same day, will it be the party that lives on in the family's memory?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Rose Of Summer

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Girl in Black](https://archiveofourown.org/works/311393) by [mrstater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrstater/pseuds/mrstater). 



**_4 August, 1914_**  
  
"Such a lot of fuss for a baby's first birthday," Jean Carlisle says, her breakfast forgotten as she watches out the dining room window at the preparations on the lawn which, at present, include the marquee going up. "She won't even remember it."  
  
"But _we_ will," Richard says briskly, without looking up from the paper. He scarcely has done for the past month, since the Archduke of Austria was assassinated; it’s only got worse in the past week, since Germany declared war on Russia and--just yesterday--on France. "I've hired one of the best photographers I know. We'll have a special album made of pictures from the party. She may not remember, but she'll know we marked the momentous occasion."  
  
"Anyway it's not _just_ for Aurora," says Edith over her teacup. "Mama puts on this garden party every year."  
  
"We haven’t had a Punch and Judy show since we were little, though," Sybil says, grinning, and Mary follows _her_ gaze out the far window where she can see the puppet stage being erected.   
  
"George's brood'll be right tickled by that," says Mark Carlisle; Richard's three nephews and niece are, of course, taking their breakfast in the nursery with Aurora. Mark gets up to take a closer look at the activity in the park. On his way around the table, he claps his elder son on the shoulder. "Pay no heed to your mother, Richie. No time like the present to go a little over the top. Lord only knows how little cause we'll have to celebrate in the days to come."  
  
Richard excuses himself then, ostensibly to go and check how the birthday girl herself is coming along with her party dress.  
  
"See to it she's got her new cardigan and bonnet!" Jean calls after him. "It's bad enough there's the impending doom of a war on Rory Jean's birthday, without her catching cold, too."  
  
Mary takes that as her cue to follow Richard and she hurries to catch up to him. She half-expects him to make a detour to the library, where he's ensconced himself almost every waking moment since they arrived at Downton to shout into the phone at his editors in the _Telegram_ office and colleagues in the War Office, demanding to know the latest developments in England's military position. He strides past the carved oak door, however, heading for the stairs as he said; when he reaches out to grasp the end of the bannister, she catches his elbow.   
  
"Darling, do you think your mother's right that this is a bit much? Ought we to call it all off?"  
  
He turns to her so sharply that she lets go of his arm and takes a step back from him. "I'll be damned if Aurora's deprived of the party she deserves because the world's gone to hell. She may not remember it, but she'll be able to sense something is wrong if we cancel." He grasps Mary by the arms. "She mustn't be made to feel that her world is not perfectly secure. None of the children must be made to feel that."  
  
His fingers press into the bare skin of her arms exposed by her short-sleeved summer gown, ivory with blue stripes and a lace collar, and Mary's heart beats violently against her ribs as if to escape. Not from him but from his fear, which shadows every hollow of his angular face.   
  
"Dear God," she whispers, and it's a good job he's holding so tightly to her, because she's gone suddenly weak in the knees. "You don't mean _you'll_ go to war?"   
  
She does not add _if there is a war_ , Richard having disabused her of the hope that England will stay out of the European conflict even before yesterday's devastating news about France.   
  
"No--God no." He enfolds her in his arms, and Mary sighs against his chest as he kisses the top of her head, his hands rubbing reassuring circles over her shoulders. "You know I'd never enlist. And if it comes to conscription, my work will be considered national importance, so they'd never send me. Even though I'll tell them to go to hell if they think my papers will serve as vehicles for government propaganda."  
  
"Conscription!" Mary tries to look up at Richard, but he holds her tightly, long fingers slotting between the notches of her spine as though to fuse their bodies together. His cheek presses against the top of her head as he nods.   
  
"There's talk of a bill--the National Service Act. It'll take a long time to pass, if they manage it at all, but…We could well be in for a very long war. And George--"  
  
 _Dear God_ , she thinks again, but does not say it aloud this time. Only wraps her arms about Richard’s waist and supports him as he clings to her.   
  
"From what George has said, he shares your political views. I can't imagine him leaving Aileen and the children to play the hero. And _if_ such a bill is passed, surely you could pull a few strings for him?"  
  
"I should like to think so, but you know George. Our political views may be the only ones we hold in common. He doesn't like hand-outs from his rich brother."  
  
"Well you convinced him to leave the store for a few days to come for the party," Mary says. It's a weak attempt at reassurance--what _can_ one say in the face of such terrible uncertainty?--but Richard's arms relax around her, just slightly, as he mumbles into her hair.  
  
"Mother had more influence over that than I did. She bullied him."  
  
"In that case, you've nothing to worry about. Jean will never let her favourite child be selected for compulsory military service. Even if it does mean swallowing his pride to accept a favour from you."  
  
Richard gives a snort of a laugh--he _can_ laugh about it, a little, now that Jean is quite satisfied to see him with a family of his own. "Who would have thought I might someday be grateful for my mother's favouritism?"   
  
It is gratitude to _her_ which Mary reads in the lines of his face as he draws back from her and smooths her hair where his embrace mussed it. If she has any inclination to be, at this moment, afflicted with humility and deny that she has done anything much, she overcomes it. Her husband is a man not easily shaken, so to reassure him, even a little, can be no small thing.   
  
Threading his long fingers through her own, she turns to lead him up the stairs to the nursery. "For now, our utmost concern is to see to it that Aurora has at least one picture made in the bonnet and cardigan your mother knitted."  
  
Richard grimaces. "You want to dress our little princess in that salmon-coloured monstrosity?"  
  
"I believe Jean intended it to be the colour of the dawn. Or a rosebud. We mustn't downplay the significance of her coming around to her granddaughter's name, even though it isn't biblical, or in the family."  
  
"She's only come around to it because Dad shortened it to _Rory Jean_ , so that she effectively has two granddaughters named for her."   
  
"Be that as it may," said Mary, "Aurora shall wear the cardigan her Granny Jean knit for her--at least until something conveniently spills on it before the party. If she doesn't, we'll have a much more fearsome enemy than the German Army to worry about. And you won't have a prayer of escaping _that_ war."  
  


~*~

  
  
Strolling arm-in-arm with her husband through the park, exchanging pleasantries and accepting compliments for their beautiful little girl from party guests who move serenely in linen and seersucker and dainty lace gloves and straw boater hats which cast sun-dappled shadows on their faces just as the spreading green boughs of cedars and oaks, as-yet untouched by approaching autumn and ancient as the Grantham line do across the freshly mown grass, Mary can hardly believe that only a few hours before she clung to Richard and spoke in a tremulous hush of impending war.   
  
But not only for distraction from the encroaching darkness of the wider world is she glad they did not call off the birthday garden party; as they make their way across the grounds for a game of lawn tennis, Richard gestures with his racket toward the marquee. Mama reclines on a chaise lounge with Aurora, her smile as bright as Mary has seen it in weeks as she straightens the enormous bow nestled in the dark ringlets instead of the knitted bonnet, about which Aurora had offered vocal and violent opinions against which even Granny Jean was powerless to argue.  
  
"You see?" Richard disentangles his arm from Mary's to rest his hand reassuringly at the small of her back. "She's not thinking about the miscarriage with her granddaughter's birthday to celebrate."  
  
Mary nods, relieved for her own sake as much as for Mama's. Since learning of the most unexpected pregnancy earlier in the summer, she's run a full gamut of emotions: from bemusement at gaining a new sibling more than twenty years her junior, with whom she would never live at home; to resentment that, should the child be a boy, she would _still_ be usurped by a virtual stranger; to being secretly pleased that this same prospect meant Lavinia Swire would never be Countess of Grantham; to jealousy at the break in Papa's voice when he said the tiny baby _was_ the longed-for son; to shame when she sat at Mama's bedside, pale and wracked with pain, the heartbreak hurting her more deeply than the physical suffering, and understood for the first time in her life the cross Mama silently bore for failing the dynasty. Now Mary watches her hold the fringed edge of her shawl over Aurora's face, then pull it away, crying _Peek-a-boo!_ with the most exaggerated of expressions which evoke peels of babyish laughter which carry to them over the strains of the string quartet playing beneath the cedar.   
  
"This must take her back to the garden parties when you and your sisters were children," Richard remarks.   
  
"Rory probably reminds her a great deal of Sybil--with your eyes and my dark hair."  
  
"Don't forget your most distinguishing feature of all: your demanding personality."  
  
"Careful, darling--I might _demand_ to be partnered with George so I can trounce you at tennis."   
  
Richard's younger brother, already waiting for them with Sybil in the close-mown plot of grass where the net has been set up for a makeshift court, hears and laughs loudly at this.   
  
"Sorry, Mary, but Richie's always going on about what a great _team_ you make. I have to witness it for myself. " Bouncing a ball on his racket, he darts a sideways grin at Sybil, who agreed to play with him while Aileen takes a well-earned rest in the marquee whilst Aurora's momentarily disengaged Nanny chases after their brood. "Anyway, I think my odds are better with the Suffragette."  
  
"You're not only Crawley girl who can make demands, you know," says Sybil, saucily, as Mary and Richard move into position on the opposite side of the net.  
  
"What are yours, then?" Mary tosses the ball in the air to make the first serve. "Votes for women if you and George win?"  
  
Returning the serve, Sybil asks, "Do you think Aurora's birthday party will put Mama and Papa in a good enough mood to agree to me having another stay in London?"   
  
Richard swings low for the volley, one knee almost touching down on the turf as he does.  
  
"Careful, Richie," teases George, handily hitting it back. "Wouldn't want to get grass stains on that expensive linen suit."  
  
But it's George's tan wool, mended and a little out of season for a garden party, that suffers as Richard's powerful backhand sends him to the ground, narrowly missing the ball.   
  
"Why?" Richard asks Sybil as she hands him the ball across the net. "Has one of your London acquaintances invited you for a visit?"   
  
"You said I'm welcome any time," Sybil replies--her demanding side revealing itself most charmingly with her cheeks flushed and eyes bright from physical activity.   
  
Mary serves again, then looks to Richard, finding it impossible not to smile at their teamwork in teasing her little sister--or at how athletic he looks in only his waistcoat and rolled-up shirtsleeves, which put his fit torso and muscular forearms to great advantage. "But you were just with us for several weeks before your debut."  
  
"What's this, Sybil?" her partner wants to know. "Is my brother being stingy with is millions? Won't abide another mouth to feed?"  
  
"Actually that's part of it," Richard replies. "Whenever Sybil's with us, she's always asking for money to take one of my secretaries out to lunch."  
  
"That's not exactly how I remember it," Mary says. "In fact when Sybil and I brought Rory by the office for a visit, Richard _suggested_ she and Miss Dawson catch up over luncheon, and handed over enough money to take every secretary in London for tea at the Ritz."  
  
She swings, belatedly, at Sybil's volley, and control turns over to their opponents.   
  
"Whose side are you on?" Richard asks, scowling--not, Mary thinks, entirely in jest.   
  
As Sybil prepares to serve again, she says, "This time I'll earn my keep."  
  
"How? Do you intend to do Miss Dawson's work while Richard sends her to luncheon?"  
  
"Diana Manners and I are going to train to become nurses."  
  
This time the ball that bounces on Mary and Richard's side of the court does so without either of them even attempting to hit it.   
  
"You're going to train to become a what?" Mary asks, in a hush, while Richard says, "I presume this is one of Diana's hare-brained ideas?"  
  
"I reckon I should see if Aileen needs any help with the kids." George slings his tennis racket over his shoulder as he turns and jogs back toward the marquee. Papa has joined Mama there now, Mary sees, lifting Aurora from her arms and pointing toward the puppet stage, to which her cousins are racing. As he carries her off with the other children, Mama remains behind to rest--though her expression is far from restful as the scene currently playing out between her daughters on the tennis court catches her attention.   
  
"To answer your question, Richard," Sybil flings at them, "yes, it is Diana's idea. But she's not as flighty as everyone seems to think--"  
  
Mary and Richard exchange a glance, which only incenses Sybil further; her nostrils flare as her hands go to her hips.   
  
"If I'm going to fight for equality for women, shouldn't I be willing to do my part in what's coming? If all the men my age are expected to join up, why shouldn't I?"  
  
"It's not that, darling, it's--"  
  
"I expected this sort of opposition from Mama and Papa," Sybil cuts her off, "but not from _you_."  
  
The last part is addressed to Richard, blue eyes bright with a look of having been utterly betrayed. He, in contrast, looks utterly baffled, his eyebrows so high on his forehead that they disappear beneath the brim of his straw homburg. It's _almost_ amusing for Mary to consider that this may well be a glimpse into the future, seventeen years from now when their own Aurora Antonia Jean is a headstrong debutante fresh from her first season, though Mary is too busy rolling her eyes at her little sister to indulge in daydreams.  
  
"Don't be a martyr, Sybil. Nobody's opposing you, and for what it's worth, I think there are far worse ways for you to express your views than by becoming a nurse."  
  
Sybil wheels around to her, eyes shining. "Then you mean I can--"  
  
"What we _do_ oppose," Mary speaks over her, thinking she sounds a bit like their father, "is you approaching Mama and Papa about it _today_. Please, darling, it's Aurora's first birthday--"  
  
"Oh, Mary. This is a world in which archdukes and duchesses are being assassinated by disenfranchised nationalists and men other men are willing to kill each other and lay down their own lives over it. I adore Rory but she's not a princess, and life isn't a garden party."  
  
"For now it is." Richard's voice comes low through white lips that scarcely move, and his eyes appear very bright and very hard in his pale face. "For now there's a Punch and Judy show your sister and I would like to watch with our little princess. And you'd do well to spend less time talking to the bloody Irish chauffeur."  
  
He guides Mary's arm through his and starts to stride off after his brother. She pulls back, though, to speak to her sister in a voice thick with unexpected tears.   
  
"Only consider that Mama has just lost a child before you tell her she must say goodbye to another."  
  


~*~

  
  
Punch and Judy have never proven more diverting to Mary than today. Not because she suddenly gains an appreciation for the supposed humour of puppets beating each other with sticks, nor even because she experiences a mother's delight in her child's--for Aurora seems to have inherited her own indifference to the show. No, the most entertaining part is Richard's attempt to direct their daughter's attention to the puppets. He does so with as much determination as ever he channelled into making the _Daily Telegram_ a commercial success, thus resulting in a more abysmal failure than ever he has suffered with his newspaper empire when it quickly becomes evident that to Rory Jean, Punch and Judy may as well not exist. The little princess is infinitely more interested in bear-crawling off the rug, the ruffled bottom of her bloomers displayed in a most unladylike fashion that makes Granny mutter about the morals imparted by her parents, to pluck blades of grass with her dimpled fingers, or errant leaves, or even, in one instance, a cricket, and attempt to put them in her mouth.   
  
Alas, the hilarity of Richard's expression when he fishes the half-chewed insect from her mouth and cannot account for all six legs, and his admonishment to not _eat nasty crickets, Darling, not when Mrs Patmore has baked a scrumptious Victoria sponge with the loveliest frosting rosebuds_ , are not enough to sustain Mary's high spirits. After the puppet show they pose for what feels like hours of family portraits, during which Sybil, in a proper strop from the tennis debacle, proves a more reluctant subject than any of the five spirited Carlisle youngsters and brings all Mary's anxieties back in full force. When Richard's photographer friend dismisses the adults to try for a picture of the grandchildren, she escapes to the marquee in the hope that a moment to herself will restore her party mood. She doesn't get one, however, Papa joining her a moment later at the table where she absently rearranges birthday presents brought by the garden party guests.   
  
"Little Miss Carlisle has more gifts than the good fairies brought Princess Aurora," Papa says, looking over her shoulder.   
  
Mary smiles up at him, a little surprised--and more than a little pleased--that he can make light of the joke in his daughter's name, made at his own expense by the son-in-law he does not especially care for.   
  
"Well there were only seven of them," she quips, "And one bad fairy." She turns her attention back to the pile of presents. "Let's hope none of these contains an enchanted spinning wheel."  
  
"Indeed." He glances away, taking in the garden party atmosphere with eyes that seem to be trying desperately to commit it all to memory. "What sort of world would one wake to, a hundred years from now?"  
  
 _Aurora isn't a princess, and life isn't a garden party._  
  
"Papa--"  
  
Before Mary can say anything further--or even think what she means to say--Carson approaches from the direction of the house bearing an envelope on a silver tray. Papa leaves Mary's side at once to read his telegram in privacy, but she does not find herself alone for long before George saunters up, dishevelled in his shirtsleeves and grass-stained knee, yet with the dimpled smirk that makes him as utterly charming as Richard with his careful elegance. The late afternoon light glints off his round wire spectacles and the champagne flutes he carries in each hand.   
  
"You looked like you could do with a drink," he says, offering one to her. "It's very good champagne."  
  
"You'd know, would you?" she teases him about how many she's watched him drink throughout the afternoon, even as she accepts it gratefully.   
  
For a moment they drink in companionable silence, listening to the quartet and the exasperated instructions of their respective spouses, Jean, and Grandmamma to the children clambering off and over the park bench, growing increasingly cranky from too much sun, too many sweets, and too many photographs.   
  
"You do know that for all Mother groused about this being too much for a baby's birthday, she's loved every moment of it?" George's brogue breaks gently into the quiet. "I've never seen her so chuffed as when she got her invitation to the Countess of Grantham's garden party. She took it all around Morningside and showed it to all her friends, and displayed it on the table next to her chair where she knits. I'm surprised she hasn't had it framed." He sips his champagne. "She'll frame that, though."   
  
The light winks again off the glass as he gestures to the group of children assembled on the front step of the house, who are actually _all_ looking at the camera and smiling as the bulb flashes with a puff of smoke. For a moment, anyway, Aurora bursting into tears, startled.   
  
"Wee poor thing," George says, chuckling, as Richard hastens to scoop the unhappy birthday girl up in his arms. When George turns to Mary, the eyes behind his spectacles are all sincerity. "Thank you for doing this. Getting the whole family together. Richie's got his millions, but that…" He again indicates the bench, though the children no longer pose on it. "Nothing could be more dear to her."  
  
Mary smiles, truly touched by the sentiment--though for the sake of Richard and the millions he does hold dear, even if his family do not, she cannot resist teasing. "I thought pictures were worth a thousand words, not a thousand pounds. And don't you think it would be a _little_ dearer to her if we put it in a gilt picture frame inlaid with pearls and diamonds?"  
  
"Skip the gold and gemstones and just have the date etched on so she won't forget this day."  
  
"No one will," Papa says in tones that make Mary's throat burn as she swallows her champagne too quickly, and down the wrong pipe, as he strides past them to the edge of the marquee.   
  
Suddenly Richard is at her side. He shifts Aurora, who has been pacified by being allowed to play with his pocket watch, to one arm as he puts the other about Mary's shoulders. She leans into him, raising her hand to cover his tense fingers with her own, as Papa addresses the party guests.   
  
"My lords, ladies, and gentleman, can I ask for silence? Because I very much regret to announce that we are at war with Germany."


End file.
